


Love From Hamburg

by Winstonian1



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Gen, Hamburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 13:58:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winstonian1/pseuds/Winstonian1
Summary: A few scenes from George's days in Hamburg, with some edited letters home to his mum





	1. ONE

ONE

 

“Gonna write a little letter, gonna mail it to ma local DJ.”

George sang confidently, through a mouth that felt as if it were full of melting foam.

“It’s a rockin’ little record I want my jockey to play.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Paul, grinning, stamping, playing to their audience. He wasn’t sure where John was, so he must be behind him somewhere. He didn’t want to turn and look…

“Roll over Beethoven gotta hear it again today.”

…because he didn’t want to take his eyes off the three sailors just in front of the stage a few feet away. A fight was brewing. You never knew where that might go. Best to be ready.

“You know ma temperature’s risin’, the jukebox blown a fuse.”

The first punch had been thrown. The other customers were drawing back to give the antagonists room, leering, guffawing; two of the sailors were on to the third.

“Ma heart’s beatin’ rhythm and ma soul…”

George stepped back sharply. His boots were new, well, new to him. He didn’t want them splattered with any of the blood which suddenly sprayed up from the unfortunate third sailor’s crushed nose and split lip.

“…keeps a singin’ the blues.”

John was next to him now, howling encouragement, or maybe just howling. Earlier this evening he’d seen John wash down a whole handful of Prellies with several swigs of lager and George knew that John would not right now know what he was doing or saying. Fortunately, when he was in these states he still did the music. Despite screaming like a banshee he was miraculously still keeping time to the song.

“Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news.”

Paul was laughing so much that he fell over, but he pushed himself upright again and carried on dancing to the beat and playing his guitar. None of the audience had noticed or, if they had, they didn’t care as the floorshow provided by the three sailors was more engrossing. George met Paul’s eyes across the stage; Paul’s wide-eyed rictus stare, George knew, matched his own exactly. His mouth was still full of foam. He needed another beer just to be able to swallow.

“I got a rockin’ pneumonia, I need a shot of rhythm and blues.”

The waiters were coming over and they laid about the three sailors quite indiscriminately with coshes. The rest of the audience roared approval. The three were manhandled out of the club.

“I think I got it off the writer sittin’ down by the rhythm review. Roll over Beethoven, rockin’ in two by two.”

The audience had returned its joint attention to the boys on the stage, clapped along, stamped along, and the group responded by upping their game even more. George forgot the foam in his mouth and throat, Paul danced Chuck Berry steps across the stage and John carried on doing what John was doing and the club loved them.

They’d been on stage for three hours. They had five more to do.

 

\---

 

_Dear Mum and Dad_

_I’m fine here. It gets tiring sometimes because we have to do a lot of hours on stage. But the manager lets us have breaks so it’s okay. The people in the club are getting to like us and they go wild when we come on. And they want us to go wild too so that gets tiring sometimes too! Some of the people are a bit rough but we’re always alright and it’s easy to keep away from them. It’s not really any different to the Red Lion on a Saturday night. The only thing is, I don’t see much of Hamburg in the day time because we work such late hours we have to sleep a lot of the day. But it’s great and I’m having a good time._

_Tell Pete I am coming home so he can’t use all the room in our bedroom._

_Give my love to Gran and I hope her leg’s better_

_Love from George_


	2. TWO

TWO

 

“It is good for you?”

George nodded. “Mmmm”

“It is good.”

George glanced up again, and nodded again, and returned his attention again to his plate which had until five minutes ago held fried egg, sausages, bacon and toast. Now it only contained half a sausage and one rasher of bacon. He tore a piece of bread off the slice on his side plate and wiped up the remains of the egg, pushing all the bread into his mouth at one time. He chewed, and tried to smile at the same time, but the smile only hit his eyes, which crinkled appreciatively. “Hmmm,” he managed.

smiled happily, and took a sip of his black coffee. He hadn’t wanted food, but he’d known his companion would have been desperate for it and he’d been right. The full breakfast had been consumed as though inhaled. Jurgen watched as George reached for the big chunky mug of tea and gulped it down with the last of his meal.

“Great. Fab. Thank you!” The mug of tea was deposited on the table top with a satisfied thud. “I needed that,” continued George, unnecessarily. He looked up at his benefactor across the grimy table.

“We take photos?”

George looked steadily at Jurgen, and the German felt the gaze, felt inspected. He felt unsure; and wondered how that could be. He had bought breakfast for this gauche, naïve teenager, this grubby and rough-mannered boy from across the sea, this working class lout. He had chosen this one, out of that group of five equally grubby rough-mannered boys from across the sea. Off the stage, he had no interest in the others, even though on stage they were utterly mesmerising and compelling. But offstage? John was, frankly, too frightening. Paul was…too charming? Stu was Astrid’s. Pete was as detached and boring as it was possible to be.

And there was George.

Jurgen picked up his coffee cup for another sip, but the cup was empty. And he’d known that, but he’d tried to take the sip as a deflection against the dark gaze from across the table. How could that be?

George had no such distractions, and seemed to need none. He’d finished his tea and his food, and he was simply sitting, relaxed, elbows on the table. His just lit cigarette nestled between two long graceful fingers, the smoke coiling up into the fuggy air. Even in the harsh fluorescent light of the sailors’ café, his startling bone structure and finely formed mouth and full lips cried out, to Jurgen, for portraits, for close shots; for close attention.

 Jurgen looked into the large dark eyes, and saw that they were not the eyes of a rough mannered lout. But then, he must have known that. When he’d asked George to meet him this morning. To take pictures.

Howls of derisory laughs had greeted George when he’d told them what Jurgen had asked.

“Fucking ‘ell, Georgie, I hope you get well paid. You can get a fortune for that sort of job.”

“Don’t turn your back on him.”

“If you don’t make it with the guitar Georgie, you’ve got a great little earner with him. Play your cards right…”

“Tomorrow? I’m free tomorrow…”

Paul had seemed so surprised that it was George and not he who’d been invited. Paul never expected his little brother George to be the focus of anyone’s attention. “Nah, you’re alright. He said me.”

“Seriously George…”

George sat calmly across the table from his new German friend. He enjoyed the replete feeling following his first big meal in a long time, and he reflected on the expression in the German’s eyes. He had seen that expression before, from a man. He wondered what it was about him that queers seemed to like. God knows. But he knew somehow that this wasn’t going to turn nasty. The guy just fancied him; and it would be great to get some good photos.

He smiled. “Where would you like to go?”

 

\---

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I hope you’re all alright. I had a really good day today. A man called Jurgen wanted to take publicity photos of me so he took me out to this old dock and on a boat and took loads of shots. They look good, I’ll save them all for you to see. He bought me breakfast too, which was fab because I was starving. The others were jealous, of the photos and the breakfast! They have the same food here as at home, eggs and sausages and chips. It’s still good in the club and we’re going down really well._

_Have to go now, I have to sleep!_

_Love from George._


	3. THREE

THREE

 

She’s a prossie.”

“Eh?”

“Pete’s bird. She’s a prossie. The one he keeps going to see.”

“Must be costing him.”

“I don’t think she charges him! She just is one.”

George laughed, casually, but didn’t feel casual. That snippet of gossip, delivered by Paul over breakfast, had bothered him. And it bothered him that it had bothered him. Pete could do what he liked. Obviously.  He always did anyway. But…

George couldn’t even indulge in a sigh, sitting opposite Paul. Of all people. On this, he must remain calm and indifferent. Or amused, as Paul clearly was. He decided to go for indifferent, being the easiest to fake; but Paul wasn’t fooled. He was smiling, at George.

George frowned, and then shrugged. “What?”

“You could, you know.”

“I could do what?” Although he knew perfectly well what Paul meant.

“Just… you know… find one. Dead easy.”

And here we were again, back to schooldays. Those days of long, desultory stilted conversations in tents or waiting by roadsides for lifts. Unspoken competition, all the time. ‘When was the last time you…?’ and so on. ‘Have you ever…?’ Copped a feel. Got under her bra. Seen a girl naked. And so on and so on. And, of course, the big one: ‘Have you ever done it?’

There were times when George was ahead of the game. Paul had unwillingly displayed surprise at what George had managed to do with Norma Jenkinson at that all-nighter, and that was a moment for George. And, of course, you could say anything you wanted with the right amount of confidence.

Though Norma Jenkinson had been true.

When it came to The Big One, it was always tempting to pretend, to over-egg. To lie. Tempting, but George never did. He knew Paul had; Jeez the whole world had to know when that happened. If he’d been a cockerel he’d have come into school crowing. But George never pretended on that one. Some instinct told him that if he lied and was found out it would be even worse. No, George was forced down the route of dark mysteriousness, the cool man who wasn’t that bothered anyway. ‘Maybe, maybe not…’ That sort of thing.

Now, here in Hamburg, schooldays theoretically behind them, there was neither room nor reason for cool or mysterious. Opportunities, it would seem, were everywhere and cool and mysterious would be unnoticed at best and ridiculed at worst. All good, but…

He knew what it was. He knew exactly, and it was stupid and he hated it but he couldn’t stop it or squash it or get rid of it. Even here, where everyone did it. Including Pete, it seemed. The fact was, George just couldn’t face the thought of going with a prostitute.

And how stupid was that.

At the thought of it, immediately would come the image, as clear as if it were yesterday, of his mum and Mrs Kirby from two doors down, and that was Arnold Grove so he would have been really small, talking about how Mrs Kirby’s daughter Lil had become a -  and they said the word really quiet in a sort of hiss but he’d heard it, even though he didn’t know what it meant. But he saw his mum’s face. And his mum’s face said it was something really bad. And when he asked his mum after Mrs Kirby had gone into her house and they were going towards theirs, what it was, his mum said Never you mind, and that it was forbidden by God. Well, that didn’t narrow it down much; it sometimes seemed, if you listened in Mass which he didn’t always do, as if everything was forbidden by God. And his mum often had a laugh about all the things the Father used to go on about as being sins, and his dad would laugh along with her. But she didn’t laugh about that one.

But if that was all it was, that wouldn’t be enough to put him off like this. He’d decided years ago to ditch the Catholic Church and all that stuff, and his mum’s expression about something when he was about five wouldn’t be all it took to hamstring him at the age of seventeen. At least, it shouldn’t. But he couldn’t erase either the jeering and ribbing from some of the lads at Dovedale about a girl they said was _one of them_. Poor Janet Thornton, she wasn’t likely in retrospect to have been a fully paid up card carrying prostitute at the age of twelve, but that wasn’t the point. It was all the things they, and he, said about what prossies did, all the unspeakable things they got up to, and all the unspeakable things that happened to the people who went with them.

He’d forgotten all the details of the conversations. It wasn’t that he was worrying specifically about what a nine year old boy said would happen to his knob if he shagged a tart. But his mum’s possibly assumed horror about Mrs Kirby’s Lil and his own genuine childish horror about what _they_ did had, it seemed, left an indelible mark on his psyche, and now the thought of going out into the Reeperbahn and engaging one, or even acceding to the persistent requests of the ones who came into the club, made his face freeze. Other girls, non professional girls – oh yes please. Any time. But them, the working ones, he couldn’t do it.

Even if it would have meant wiping the smile off Paul’s face as they sat in the Mission with breakfast.

George just gave a small laugh.

“Really though. Why not?”

George looked at him. “When I get desperate. Then I’ll think about it.”

“And you’re not desperate now?”

George looked back at his old friend, from the vantage point of way beyond the school gates. “No,” he said. His eyes and his face were not smiling. “I’m not.”

 

\---

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_There isn’t really any news to tell you, I’m just writing because I didn’t want you to worry if I didn’t write. I’m still fine. We’ve found a gear place to eat called the Seamans Mission and we can get great food there like all the stuff we have at home. They’re nice to us and give us big helpings! We usually go there together. It’s all good with the others, but Pete doesn’t join in much. I think he’s found some other friends and goes off with them. But that’s ok. Stu’s found a girlfriend too, but she doesn’t speak English and he doesn’t speak German! But she seems nice._

_I’m glad Gran’s out of hospital now. Send her my love._

_Love from George_


	4. FOUR

FOUR

 

“Ein Tafelteller.”

The matronly German lady handed the dripping plate to George, who took it and began to dry it with the already damp tea towel. “Ein Tafelteller,” he repeated obediently.

“Ein anderer Tafelteller.”

“Ein anderer Tafelteller.” Whilst drying the second plate, he cast a sideways sly glance at the lady, and treated her to his slow, lopsided smile.

She smiled back. And blushed.

“Vier Loffel,” she announced.

“Nein,” George answered.

She looked at him in surprise. Her eyebrows expressed the surprise.

“Funf Loffel,” he said, fanning out the spoons to show that there were indeed five and not four. The lady burst out laughing.

“Sie haben vollkommen Recht!”

The kitchen door swung open a little further and Paul came in. He looked pink, and damp, and scrubbed, and he grinned at Astrid’s mum before saying to George, “Your turn.” He then stooped to push his pile of filthy clothes into the washing machine.

They’d tossed a coin to see who would go first for the bath, and George was last. He didn’t mind. It meant he wouldn’t have anyone pounding on the bathroom door saying he was taking too long. So John and Paul had in turn soaked and scrubbed and shampooed, while he’d helped Astrid’s mum with the washing up and put up with her trying to teach him German words. She seemed to like him. And he was used to helping mums with washing up. He smiled at Astrid’s mum, and turned and left the kitchen, for all he knew leaving Paul to finish the drying up. He padded up the lushly carpeted stairs and slipped into the bathroom.

His friends had left it in a terrible state, as anyone with any sense would have expected, with water all over the floor, wet towels left in pools of damp and the bath filthy, yet this was luxury compared to the Bambikino and George barely noticed. He ran hot water into the bath and, whilst it was filling, pulled off his grubby, sweat-encrusted clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. He climbed into the bath as soon as there was enough water for him to sit in it and let the rest of it fill around him as he lay back and savoured the sensation of freshness and unhurried pampering.

He dunked his head under the water, and shampooed his hair and rubbed fiercely and vigorously and then dunked again to get the soap out. He lay in the hot water, and leaned his head back against the back of the bath, and his enjoyment was marred only by the knowledge that he would soon have to get out again. But he was last, so he didn’t have to hurry.

All three had brought a change of clothes. Stu more or less lived there now so he always had his stuff there, and Pete had gone off somewhere, so only John, Paul and himself were taking advantage of the rare chance to clean up. George rubbed himself as dry as he was able with the one small dry towel that was left, and then got dressed and went downstairs again. He squeezed his filthy stage-wear into the washing machine in the kitchen, and nodded to Astrid’s mum, who was still finishing the washing up. Perhaps Paul hadn’t stayed to help after all. “Danke,” he said to her and smiled. She beamed back at him.

George slipped into the sitting room. Astrid and Stu were sitting close together on the sofa, his arm around her and her legs curled up next to her. At the other end of the sofa sat Paul; he was leafing through the pages of a large book on surrealist art which he’d taken from a shelf and was offering commentary on each print. John was sprawled across the carpet with his back against an armchair and his booted feet crossed at the ankles. He was offering commentary on Paul’s commentary. The sense of competition was bubbling relentlessly just below the surface. George quietly and smoothly lowered himself onto a floor cushion in a corner.

The conversation about Magritte and Dali and their comparative merits rumbled on. At least you could see what Magritte was painting. But it was a load of rubbish. No, it was there to fool you, to make you think you were looking at something you weren’t looking at. Paul was leaning forward to argue. His face was earnest and serious, eyes wide, left hand gesticulating. Paul was making the point that he was an earnest and serious student of art. John was clearly indifferent to Paul’s seriousness, as he leaned his head back against the armchair and blew smoke at the ceiling. He took the opportunity to point out to Paul that he, not Paul, had been at Art College. Paul countered with the fact that he had studied Art A Level and, unlike John, he’d worked at it. Yeah, but what was the point of a picture you had to work at?

Astrid didn’t understand a word that was being said, on this lazy afternoon in her mother’s sitting room, and she didn’t care either. She was wrapped in Stu’s arms and was comfortable and content. Stu did understand what they were saying and was clearly amused by the conversation; he had the girl he loved in his arms and was also comfortable, and also content to let his friends snipe at each other about the subject he knew far better than both of them put together. The two of them watched the performance being played out in front of them; and performance it was. Each of the young men was working on developing and demonstrating the persona which would in fact be amplified and publicised to an unthinkable degree over the years to come. Astrid watched them; and then her eyes turned to George.

He was sitting on a cushion on the floor, thin arms around one raised leg and his chin resting on his knee. He wore jeans and a white teeshirt, his feet bare, and his hair, usually swept up and gelled and starched into its usual ted style, was falling loose across his forehead. Divested of his customary aggressive stage clothes, he looked impossibly young. He looked like a schoolboy which, had he not so determinedly turned his back on formal education, he still would be. He too was watching Paul and John, his eyes moving from one to the other as they uttered and pronounced; and then they moved across the room and met Astrid’s gaze.

And Astrid inwardly paused, surprised.  Those large dark eyes were not the eyes of the little boy, the sweet child, das liebchen Kind, the box in which she’d placed him when she’d first invited them to her home. His eyes met hers, coolly and appraisingly, and then an eyebrow rose and his expression could only have been described as sardonic. Amused. In fact, dismissive. Little George was utterly unimpressed by the play acting of his band-mates. The subtle half smile and the momentary lowering of the long eyelashes let her know that that was them and this was him and he was not they. They, the small half smile said, were sometimes idiots.

His gaze held hers.

George, Astrid realised for the first time, was very much his own person. Was every bit as confident as Paul and as John. He simply didn’t bother to shout about it.

Excitement moved in her as the photographer within her already started to explore this new subject which had so unexpectedly presented itself to her. Forgetting herself, she twisted around in Stu’s arms and beamed up at him and he, no idea what thoughts were going through her head, smiled back and dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.

Exis and Beatles sat together as the afternoon softened into dusk, and waited for the washing to finish, waited for the cue for them to step out of the padded protection of Astrid’s mother’s house and back into the clamour of the stage and the sailors and the drink, and the merciless beat of the music.

 

\---

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Today Stu’s girlfriend invited us all over to her house, which is her mum’s house, and we could all have baths and a good meal. They’re really nice to us, even though Astrid’s mum, that’s Stu’s girlfriend, doesn’t speak English. I think Paul and John fancy her too because they were going on and on about art because she’s an artist and I think they wanted her to think they were really clever. I couldn’t be bothered with that. She’s really nice anyway. But she’s a bit strange for me! Then we went back to the club and did a long shift. Dad was always complaining about his long shifts on the buses. He should try it here!_

_That’s all the news there is for now. I hope you’re all okay_

_Love from George_

 


	5. FIVE

FIVE

 

George slung his arm around her neck and drew her closer to him. She snuggled back. He leaned forward again to pick up his drink from the table, and when he leaned back she snuggled again without him having to do anything to encourage it. He took another sip of his beer, and turned to look at her. “Another drink?” he asked. His German would probably have stretched to that phrase, as it often came in handy, but her English was pretty good so he didn’t bother.

“No, thank you,” she said, except that the ‘thank’ came out as ‘senk’. “I still have some.”

He nodded at her and, as he was facing her, and close to her, he leaned forward the few necessary inches and kissed her again. And she kissed back. She really kissed back. So they kissed for some time. And by the end of the kiss George was in some difficulties. He crossed his legs, hoping the action looked casual.

It may have done. But she didn’t help matters. He felt her hand stray into his lap, and linger. So, however casual his leg crossing may have looked, she certainly discovered the true situation at that point. He swallowed, and looked into her eyes.

She smiled at him. And, if that smile wasn’t inviting, then he wasn’t … whatever he was.

He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Would you like to go?”

Without breaking her gaze, she nodded. Her hand was still in his lap and it was sending definite messages. He slid his arm back from around her neck, shifted away and got to his feet, and then held out his hand to her. She stood up next to him, and took the hand. They left their drinks, and left the bar, and once outside on the street George put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close again.

“We go to your flat, yes?” She asked, in a sort of husky whisper.

Speech was difficult. Coherent thought was difficult. He swallowed again, but his throat was dry. All he could do was nod at her; but then knew, as much as he hated to say it, as much as he’d have given his guitar to avoid saying it, he would have to say it. He had to. It was only fair. “It isn’t a flat, really. It’s just a room. And… a horrible room really. And…” This was the hard part but he had to say it. He was a good decent boy and he had to say it….”the other guys might be there. From the band. I haven’t got my own room.”

He’d said it. He’d been the decent boy he was. He’d thrown away his chances. But it would have been pretty unpleasant if he hadn’t and she’d…

“In zet case,” he heard her say through the buzzing in his head and the disappointed screaming in his mind, “we will have to be quiet.”

George stopped walking, so she stopped too and turned to look up at him, with big green eyes. It had been the eyes he’d first noticed, in fact, seeing her across the club with her friend, smiling at him, watching him. She always watched him. Her friend watched John, but she watched him. Most weeks she was there, on Tuesdays, but then she started coming more often and she always watched him, and smiled at him. So he smiled back, and after a while he started singing his songs to her, and her smile grew brighter and the green eyes glowed.

“Who’s the bird, George?”

“Fuck off.”

He started to look out for her, and sang his solos to her every time. And then once she pushed her way to the front of the crowd and, in a break in the show when he and the others were gulping down beer and sweating, she asked if he would want to meet her for a drink some time. And he was glad, because his German would never have stretched to that. And said yes.

So here they were.

They stood, facing each other in the brazen, deafening unforgiving street. He still held her hand. He was still the decent boy. He had to say the next bit. “Are you sure?”

Her green eyes met his brown ones, and she nodded, and smiled again.

They carried on walking, his arm back around her shoulders, protectively. She snaked her own arm around his waist, and so he had to stop walking and kiss her again. Until she broke away, and laughed. “Come on! We’ll never get there!”

George didn’t know how he continued that well-known walk back to the Bambikino, but he paused at the door of their space, you couldn’t call it a room, and said, “They might be in there, asleep. Do you…?”

In answer, she put a finger across his lips to silence him, pushed open the door, and they slipped inside.

It was quiet, and dark, and they were there but he could hear them breathing so they were all asleep. Pete, and John, and he wasn’t sure about Paul. For one terrible moment all his emotions rose up in him in one and he thought he might be sick. But he wasn’t, and instead guided her the few feet to his bunk, and gently urged her to lie down there. She kicked off her shoes, so did he, and they lay facing each other and he yanked the one blanket across them both, and then raised himself on one elbow and leaned across her as she encircled him with her arm and pulled him down to her.

She knew what she was doing. Thank God. He forgot his nerves, forgot worrying he’d do it all wrong, forgot everything except her hands on him undoing his trousers and sliding inside to grasp him, and the feel of her thighs under his own hand and the wetness when he managed to tug the panties away and delve into her. And then he moved on top of her and she guided him in, thank God again. And then…

Oh fuck.

Oh my god.

It didn’t take long. He was seventeen and this was his first time. But he remembered what he’d read in his auntie’s encyclopaedia when she wasn’t watching what he was reading those times his family visited, and he touched her there and she seemed to like it judging by the sound she made. But, it didn’t last long.

He lay, over her, breathing hard and stroking her damp hair back. He kissed her again.

“Whoop Whoop!!”

“Attaboy Georgie!”

 There was clapping. And cheering. George looked around blearily, and the three bastards were sitting up in their bunks and cheering and applauding him; and he would have liked to kill them all. Every one. Slowly. Painfully. He closed his eyes, and wondered how he would live through this moment.

Except that he did, because she was laughing too.

“Your friends are happy for you, yes?”

George looked down at her, her smile in the dim light, and she gave him another hug.

Maybe they were.  Yes. Maybe they actually were.

George smiled back at her, and then rolled over to lie next to her and hold her tightly. “Fuck off you bastards! Some of us need to sleep.”

Chuckles reached him from around the tiny room, and George smiled into her hair and buried his face in her neck. She held him tight.

He was a happy man.

 

\---

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Not much news. I’m really glad we came out to Hamburg though. It’s really great here! I love it. That’s all, just wanted to write anyway._

_Lots of love from George_


End file.
